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Total silence. After long enough, I turn and look over at Margaret.
She’s staring at me in surprise, her mouth a little O.
“That guy is a professor?” she finally says. “Professor. Not a TA or a grad student or something.”
“Pro-fucking-fessor,” I say, a word that I’m not sure makes sense, as I open my laptop.
“And he took an undergrad out? That’s shady,” she says, and now she sounds concerned. “And a serious ethics violation —”
I turn in my chair, holding up the laptop that I’ve opened to the VSU Mathematics Faculty page. She leans in, reading.
“His current research specialty is Diplodean Number Regression Theory and he’s hiked all three major long-distance trails in the US. Someday, he hopes to complete the Great Himalayan Trail,” she reads, then looks at me. “And he dates students —”
“I didn’t tell him I was a student,” I say. “He didn’t tell me he was a professor, I didn’t mention that I was an undergrad, I just thought he was someone who lived in town and had probably graduated a year or two ago.”
“You never asked what he did? He never asked you?”
Margaret sounds suspicious.
“No,” I say, putting my laptop back on the desk and plugging it in.
“What did you talk about?”
Magic and sea monsters and pickup artists and stars, I think.
“Other stuff. You want a transcript?”
“Were you talking?” she asks, both eyebrows lifted. “I thought you said Excalibur didn’t happen.”
Excalibur is what the four of us have named the possibly-mythical dick that finally takes my virginity, after the time that I referred to myself as a ‘reverse sword-in-the-stone situation’ during one late-night chat. It’s become both a running joke and a useful shorthand, and yes, I know that King Arthur took the sword out of the stone.
“Yes, we talked,” I say, looking away so she doesn’t see me blush. “Just not about that.”
She’s still watching me from my bed, concern all over her face.
“We already broke it off,” I say. “You’ll notice that I’m sitting here talking to you and not getting ready to go on another date.”
“It’s just that professors who date students —”
“He’s not a professor who dates students.”
“Q.E.D., he is,” she points out. “I’m just wondering if we should tell someone about this —”
“No!” I practically shout.
“ — In case it’s a pattern,” she finishes.
Suddenly, I’m a little uncertain.
Last night seemed special. It seemed like a bolt from the blue, totally genuine, but now I can’t help but wonder. Am I the first? He doesn’t routinely try to date undergrads, does he?
One accident is understandable, but a professor with a thing for undergrads is… worrisome.
“Look, it was one date,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. “All we did was make out, agree on a second date, and then call it off when I showed up in his class today.”
Margaret looks skeptical, and I can’t quite blame her because ‘professor who dates his undergraduate students’ does sound very, very bad.
“It’s over,” I say. “No harm, no foul, it’s already ended. Caput.”
She takes a deep breath, then lets it out, nodding.
“I’m sorry,” she says, then gives me a searching look. “You okay? You seemed really into him last night.”
I’m not okay. Actually, I’m crushed. Maybe even heartbroken, which is a stupid way to feel after a single date, but oh well. I guess I feel stupid.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“C’mere,” she says, holding out one hand.
I scrunch up my face at her.
“Come get physical affection, dammit,” she goes on, still holding out her hand. “It’ll lower your cortisol levels and give your brain a hit of dopamine, which you probably need.”
It’s impossible to argue with Margaret sometimes, so I go flop down on my bed, legs hanging off one side. She flops next to me.
“There’s a dildo poking into my spine,” I sigh.
“That’s not where it’s supposed to poke,” she teases.
I squirm, then finally pull out a long, thick, red, knobby length of silicone that looks more like modern art than a penis. Next to me, Margaret wriggles, then whacks my dildo with the ridiculously-sized purple one.
“On guard!” she says, and finally, I laugh.Chapter NineCalebI look at myself in the mirror and sigh, scrutinizing the point of my tie where it crosses my belt. I stand up straighter. I slouch. I loosen it ever so slightly, because this thing always feels like it’s strangling me.
In all positions, the point of the tie stays firmly within the boundaries set by my belt. By Jove, after five different tries, I think I’ve got it.
“ — is going to overflow if one of Mom’s church friends brings another lasagna, I swear,” Seth’s voice says from the foot of my bed, where my phone is on speaker.
“Is it Mom’s church friends or is it Eli?” I ask, still regarding myself in the mirror, hoping that I don’t look as ridiculous as I feel.
